


Gestures and Words

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Body Hair, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Oral Sex, Piercings, Tattoos, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is, in Bilbo’s opinion, simply no good word for what they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gestures and Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [issaro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/issaro/gifts).



> Written for the [Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday](http://haveahappyhobbitholiday.tumblr.com/) gift exchange. So Happy Holidays, everyone!

There is, in Bilbo’s opinion, simply no good word for what they are. 

It’s not as though he hasn’t tried to think of one. More often than not any spare scrap of parchment on his writing desk can be found covered with a mishmash of khuzdul and westron letters, many of which are scribbled out or blotted over with a generous splash of ink moments after appearing on the page. Bilbo is not embarrassed by his—his _relationship_. Nor is he trying to hide it. But it simply wouldn’t do should poor Ori come along to collect his documents and catch an eyeful of Bilbo’s little side project, now would it?

“Is that what you’re thinking about right now?” Dwalin rumbles.

He lifts his head from where’s he settled comfortably between Bilbo’s splayed legs, belly-down on the mattress with his hands tucked beneath Bilbo’s knees. His mouth is damp and red beneath his moustache, and it takes Bilbo a moment to properly answer.

“Don’t be offended,” Bilbo says, clearing his throat in response to the reedy sound of his own voice. “I think about it quite often.”

Dwalin drags his tongue out along his bottom lip, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. 

“I’m not doing a proper job then.”

“Now, now, don’t—” Bilbo shivers as Dwalin bows his head, nails dragging over the broad expanse of his shoulders as he licks a hot stripe over Bilbo’s stones. “Mm… don’t sell yourself short.”

Dwalin pulls away again with a wet sound, ignoring Bilbo’s muttered protest and dragging his bearded cheek along the inside of his thigh. 

“What’s it matter?”

“What—ha?”

“Having a name for it?”

“Because—” Bilbo blinks and frowns, wriggling against the stack of pillows at his back when Dwalin nips at him impatiently. “Because we’re together, the three of us, and we should be able to… to define that. And—hey! Oh, I swear it’s like I’m bedding a warg…”

Dwalin pulls away, not bothering to soothe the bite marks he’s left behind on Bilbo’s skin with a kiss. A sour expression has fallen over his face. 

“Right. That is not an image I need.”

Bilbo laughs, spurred on by Dwalin’s wrinkled nose and furrowed brow. He traces a finger down the shell of Dwalin’s ear, finding a silver ring by touch and giving it a gentle, playful little flick. 

No one has ever asked how it started between them. Bilbo is under the impression that such a relationship is not half as scandalous here in the mountain as it would be in the Shire. Still, were he ever questioned on its development, Bilbo is unsure what answer he could give. Thorin and Dwalin had been teetering back and forth between friendship and something greater long before the quest began, Bilbo is sure, and it’s something of a mystery even to him how he found himself drawn in between them. Surely, it must have begun long before that night Laketown when they invited him to share their bed, but Bilbo falters whenever he tries to pinpoint the precise moment. 

Maybe it started in Mirkwood, over the weeks Bilbo spent scuttling about through the halls of the elves like a rat, sitting for as long as he dared by Thorin or Dwalin’s cell, delivering messages back and forth between them. Or maybe it was when they took their rest at Beorn’s home, when Dwalin all but lifted Bilbo up by the back of his collar and dragged him outside for a sword lesson while Thorin watched from the veranda, his mouth curving suspiciously behind his pipe.

But then, perhaps it all sparked from that single moment in Bag End, when Thorin first stepped through Bilbo’s door and circled round him like a predator, when Bilbo dipped his chin and snapped back and Dwalin watched it all from the hallway, his eyes dark and thoughtful. 

The door to their chamber swings open, near silent but for the blunted click of it against the wall.

“You’ve started without me,” Thorin says.

Bilbo narrows his eyes. It’s difficult to make out Thorin’s expression through the sheer cloths that canopy the bed, but his tone is light, and the soft play of firelight across his features gives Bilbo reason enough to believe that he’s smiling. 

“You’re late, to be fair,” Bilbo says. He nudges his ankle against the hard dip of Dwalin’s hip, urging him to agree.

“You have to marry the hobbit, Thorin,” Dwalin calls over his shoulder, grinning at Bilbo when he sputters. “He wants a title.”

“That is most certainly _not_ what I said,” Bilbo sniffs.

Thorin hums. It’s a low, thoughtful sound that Bilbo knows better than to take seriously. He kicks off his boots before approaching the bed, setting aside his crown as he walks. The edges of the curtains catch against his hair and the rough fur of his mantle as he slips between them. 

“Is ‘Burglar’ not enough anymore?” He asks, reaching out to touch Bilbo’s cheek, pinching an extra spot of colour into his skin.

Dwalin snorts before promptly setting his mouth back to work, effectively silencing Bilbo’s rebuttal, distorting his snippy reply into a choked off, whimpering groan.

Thorin chuckles, his eyes darkening as he draws his thumb along the seam of Bilbo’s lips. He leaves it there for Bilbo to suckle at as reaches down to rub his hand along Dwalin’s spine, pausing to grip at the base of his neck. He squeezes, fingers flexing as he guides Dwalin’s pace, urging him to lift off slowly before pulling Bilbo in deep. Dwalin makes a sound, a growl or a moan, and Bilbo shudders in response, his back arching as his toes curl against the sheets.

“It’s not— not fair,” he gasps, turning his face away. “You team up on me, the two of you.”

“You don’t usually complain,” Thorin says.

“I— I’m not sure that’s true, actually.”

Thorin releases Dwalin, stepping away with a low laugh as he plucks at the flashing clasp that rests at his throat.

Thorin undresses slowly. He makes no show of it, but is pleasant to watch all the same. Though his face and hands have been warmed by the sun the rest of Thorin is pale, the glow of his skin contrasted against the dark hair that covers his chest, the ink that marks his shoulders and back. It strikes Bilbo at times, the stark differences between him and the dwarves who share his bed. Surely, Thorin and Dwalin should not be as lovely to him as they are, with their bearded jaws and strong hands. But from the first time they laid together Bilbo had been fascinated by the markings that covered their bodies, the metal weaved into their hair and pierced through their skin. They had returned his interest in kind, squeezing at Bilbo’s generous arse and rubbing their hands over his stomach, unwinding spools of his curly hair only to watch it bounce back into shape.

Bilbo reaches down just as Thorin unlaces his breeches, gripping at Dwalin’s forearm, squeezing at it to feel the strength of him. Dwalin sighs and lifts away, the stroke of his tongue almost immediately replaced by the steady pump of his hand, and Bilbo mewls at the sudden contrast, writhing against the pillows at his back.

The mattress dips beneath Thorin’s weight when he joins them, and almost at once Dwalin is pulling him close, his pace on Bilbo’s cock stuttering. Thorin responds with a matching ferocity, wrapping an arm around Dwalin’s back, twisting and pushing back when Dwalin tries to pin him against the bed. 

Bilbo shuffles to the side, fumbling against the pillows, feeling sluggish and slow and caught between wanting Dwalin’s attention back and hoping to see him and Thorin rut against each other.

They’re always like this. They fuck like they spar, Bilbo thinks, fighting against each other in manner that tests rather than breaks, that leaves them wrung out and gasping, their blood hot and singing for more. He watches as Dwalin carves his fingers over Thorin’s shoulders, blinding following the path of his ink. Thorin breaks away and bows forward, drawing his tongue along the bar that pierces through Dwalin’s dusky nipple, rumbling low in his throat when Dwalin winds a hand into his hair and pulls.

“Can I make a request?” Bilbo asks, as if this is some theatre show being put on solely for his benefit.

They turn to him as one.

“Oh, is the consort feeling left out?” Dwalin asks.

“Don’t call—” Bilbo blows out his cheeks. “Oh, never mind. What would that make you though, hmm?”

“The fool,” Thorin says, ducking away from Dwalin’s following, half-hearted blow.

“The soldier,” Dwalin clarifies, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders, dragging his hand down over his own furred chest.

They move to arrange themselves around Bilbo, Thorin at his back with Dwalin once more settling between his legs, hiking Bilbo’s knees up over his shoulders to rob him of any leverage. Bilbo is caught in a delightful trap, squirming between the silken heat of Dwalin’s mouth and the firm pressure of Thorin’s chest, thick fingers tweaking at his nipples as teeth are set against his throat.

Bilbo has never been overly vocal in bed, but he finds it impossible to keep silent when Dwalin and Thorin both focus on him like this. So he moans and whimpers, tries to rock himself further into Dwalin’s mouth and whines when strong hands hold him still. 

_Yes,_ he says. _Yes, yes, please._

He finishes with a low groan, with his mouth turned up in the shape of a smile that Thorin is quick to touch with his own. Dwalin’s throat works around him, replaced by the gentle, coaxing touch of his hand only when Bilbo thinks he has nothing more to give, wringing one last shot from him before Bilbo collapses in a boneless heap.

Dwalin makes a pleased sound as he and Thorin shift around him. A damp rag is produced and stroked gently over Bilbo’s belly and sensitive parts. Fingers card through his hair and a hand drifts down over his soft side, rubbing absently over his hip. Bilbo opens his eyes with his cheek pressed to Thorin’s chest, feels the dwarf move beneath him as he arches forward to offer Dwalin a kiss.

“I can move,” Bilbo offers, his words nearly swallowed by a yawn.

“No,” Dwalin says.

“Don’t,” Thorin tells him.

And so he doesn’t. Bilbo closes his eyes and allows himself to be tended, and thinks again of what they are to each other.

Burglar, soldier, king.

Despite his love of language Bilbo understands the limits of words as well as he does their power. Sometimes, Bilbo will pick up his quill and lean back in his writing chair, touch the feathered end to his chin and consider the sheer impossibility of truly describing everything that’s happened to him, the flash of elation that burned through him as he crossed the borders of the Shire, the clutching fear he discovered the Misty Mountains and the warmth that bloomed high in his chest when he first beheld Erebor from the edge of the Carrock, Thorin at his side and Dwalin at his back.

Words are strange things, in the end. How much they say yet how little they mean. But for now Bilbo is content, closing his eyes as Thorin and Dwalin’s hands slip towards each other, their fingers meeting without ever leaving the path of Bilbo’s body.


End file.
